


where the light is

by thedevilsgarden



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-06
Updated: 2019-01-06
Packaged: 2019-10-05 17:04:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17329013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilsgarden/pseuds/thedevilsgarden
Summary: Misty is no stranger to darkness.





	where the light is

She values her sight, her hearing, her ability to smell and taste. 

But Misty has always experienced life through touch.

* * * 

She performs her first miracle on a Friday.

It is the start of recess and the other third graders are already hanging from monkey bars and chasing each other around the soccer field. Misty is sitting alone on a swing, kicking up wood chips and watching them scatter.

She is about to send up another flurry of chips when a small yellow butterfly lands by her feet. For a few moments, Misty watches with rapt attention as the butterfly moves around, then stills, its wings fluttering. Misty has the overwhelming urge to touch those pretty wings, to inspect their delicate features up close. 

She leans over, arm extended, fingers outstretched.

“Hey, look out!”

There is a dull thud as a soccer ball smacks the back of her head and sends her falling forward onto the ground, crushing the butterfly under the weight of her arm. A boy from her class runs over to retrieve the ball, flashing her an apologetic smile.

“Sorry.”

As he turns to leave, Misty rises on her hands and knees and collects the injured butterfly in her cupped palms, praying for signs of life, for the slightest twitch of mangled legs. 

And then it hits her, for the very first time in her life: the unmistakable stench of death. 

Her eyes fill with tears as she runs her thumb gently over the crimped wings. Her nose is running, tears rolling down her cheeks, when she feels a soft tickle against her palms.

The butterfly has started to stir. Its tiny legs are moving, and soon enough it has righted itself, healed and unbroken. And Misty watches wide-eyed as the butterfly flaps its wings and gently takes flight.

It is her first resurrection, her first miracle, and Misty makes an important discovery that day. It’s something she won’t consider until years later, but it’s a prophecy of sorts, and it is this:

Touch is life, and it is death. 

The only difference is the intention.

* * * 

Misty’s powers are a gift. 

Before her powers, before she could resurrect, she was no one; just a strange, lonely little girl without any friends to speak of.

Now she protects the helpless. She can stroke life back into wilted leaves, can cradle the face of a woman’s corpse in her hands and coax the death from her body. 

She is a miracle worker, a witch, and her people burn her for it.

* * * 

The injustice of it is what changes her. 

Before her death, she used touch for good, to heal the injured. But once those men break into her home and drag her off to die, a seed of darkness is planted inside of her. It is an angry, vengeful sort of darkness, the kind that lurks just beneath the surface, ready to strike. 

They both nestle inside of her, the light and the dark. Two weights, side by side. 

In a few rare moments, when the light inside of her dims, Misty lets the darkness win. She murders men for hunting in her swamp, for entering her sanctuary and snuffing out life. She develops a brutal sense of justice, comes to believe that life is not precious if it’s the life of an oppressor, the life of a man who doesn’t deserve to live. 

It is easy to play God, the merciful son and the vengeful father, who ends life as soon as he gives it. But Misty is not a god, just a lonely young woman chasing the light, desperate for a connection, for a family of her own.

* * * 

Eventually, Misty finds her tribe. 

She has been an outsider her whole life, always on the periphery, always reaching for people who don’t reach back. 

But Cordelia reaches for her hand right away, the very first time they meet. Cordelia, with her pale eyes and soft features, initiates the first touch, the first connection, and Misty is so surprised she hesitates, looks to Zoe for guidance, before she takes the proffered hand and squeezes.

Cordelia gasps, a sudden, hushed sound, and for a few moments she goes completely still. 

“You’re Misty Day,” she breathes. 

And just like that, Misty has a home, a place to stay for as long as she wants it. She thinks Cordelia must be an angel, to give so much when Misty has nothing to offer in return. 

“This is your house,” Cordelia says, and Misty believes her.

* * * 

Fiona takes an interest in her, but for all the wrong reasons.

The other girls think Misty is naïve, to believe that Fiona would invite her hero to the house for a private concert simply out of good will. But despite how star struck she may be in the moment, Misty understands the pull of the supremacy, and she understands Fiona better than the rest of them ever could. Because Misty can sense darkness a mile off, and she has known all along that Fiona Goode has no soul.

She doesn’t think she’s ever sensed anything like it, an aura so hollow and awful it makes her insides twist. Fiona has only ever touched her twice, and both sensations sent a shudder through her body. It’s sort of incredible, she muses, that a person so consumed by darkness could create someone as light as Cordelia. 

Misty often has the opportunity to feel that lightness up close. Cordelia isn’t very tactile with most of the witches, but she often touches Misty’s arm or her hair, very briefly, and each time Misty feels a rush of Cordelia’s magic, her aura, soft and white, the purest she’s ever felt. The younger witches in the house are a balance of light and dark, a spectrum, but Cordelia is all light. She is good, overflowing with goodness, and Misty wants to know her. 

And to that end, she’s careful not to initiate contact with her. Misty has always established connections through touch, always trusted her fingers and palms to map out what’s in front of her, but Cordelia is reserved and more cautious than most, and Misty is worried about overstepping. 

They’ve only just met, but already Misty admires Cordelia, and that admiration grows with every interaction, every touch. And days into her stay at the academy, when they share a moment in the greenhouse, a moment of unexpected joy, Cordelia takes her hands and tugs her close, says “we make a great team”, and Misty’s admiration for her shifts into something more.

* * * 

In hell, touch is corrupted.

There isn’t any warmth, any comfort, anything to latch onto. So touch becomes linked to a sequence of emotions: fear, pain, and loss, on repeat.

It begins with a press of calloused fingers, of nails digging into her arm. Then the cool metal of the scalpel against rubbery skin. And finally the thin, surgical line of blood, followed by the fingers, the metal, the blood, again and again and again.

Thousands and thousands of iterations, all the same. 

Misty forgets about what touch used to be, and accepts what it has become.

* * * 

When she returns from hell, the first person she touches is Cordelia Goode. 

Misty walks through the doors of Robichaux’s with Nan at her side, and sees Cordelia for the first time in over a year. And Cordelia was always beautiful, always so polished and refined, but now, with the unmistakable glow of the supremacy, she is radiant. 

As Misty steps towards her, Cordelia releases a quiet sob and rushes to embrace her, an embrace that Misty gratefully receives. It is the first time in ages that someone has held her like this, and Misty could weep she’s so relieved. 

Cordelia is already crying openly as she cradles the back of Misty’s head, and Misty notes the softness of her cheeks, the silky fabric of her blouse, the hard press of Cordelia’s nails against her skin. They aren’t like the nails of her teacher, the man in hell who tormented her, but the sensation is similar enough to make her shiver.

The memory is so vivid, so tangible, that she finds herself wondering if she’s actually escaped hell at all, or if this is just another of Papa’s tricks. 

So when Cordelia pulls back to look at her, to caress her face and smile, Misty taps her index finger against Cordelia’s chest in a soft, rhythmic pattern, just to be sure she’s real.

* * * 

Zoe and Queenie seem very glad that she has returned, and they are both softer, much happier than she remembers them. 

She stands in the kitchen, munching on a bagel and enjoying its pliant texture, as they update her on the last year or so, on Cordelia’s rise to the supremacy and the new surge of enrollment at the school. If she concentrates hard enough, Misty can hear flickers of conversation from upstairs, desks scraping across wooden floors, soft footsteps in the hall. The house certainly feels fuller, and she would be pleased about that, pleased for Cordelia, if the presence of so many unfamiliar faces weren’t so overwhelming. 

Cordelia, who has been watching the three of them with a fond smile for the past half hour, reaches over and squeezes Misty’s arm. 

“It’s okay,” she says. “You don’t have to meet them all today.”

Misty is going to ask if the supremacy has given Cordelia the ability to read minds now, too, but before she can there are a few shrieks from upstairs, and Zoe and Queenie share a worried glance.

Cordelia seems loath to leave Misty’s side, but the shrieks only increase in volume, and then something shatters.

“We’ll be right back,” Cordelia promises. “Two minutes.”

Zoe, Queenie, and Cordelia all hurry out of the room, and suddenly, by herself in such a wide-open space, those images of hell return to her. Those frogs wriggling in her hands, her hands around that scalpel, each touch a death sentence. Desperate for a distraction, Misty surveys the space, her eyes landing on a small plant on the windowsill. It’s seen better days, so she walks over and, after a moment’s hesitation, takes a leaf between her finger and thumb, gently stroking it back to life.

Her magic starts to stir, and that part, at least, is expected. But then she feels it, the way her magic shifts, transforms itself into something darker than she remembers. Her magic used to flow, but now it oozes, thick and ugly, until it reaches the very tips of her fingers.

Slowly, the leaf she is holding starts to droop, losing its residual color. She watches it shrink and go stale, desiccating before her eyes, until it crumbles to nothing. 

Misty is so stunned she barely has time to jump back before Queenie and Zoe reenter the room, the ends of their hair completely singed.

“Cordelia might be a while,” Zoe says. “There was an…incident.”

“Just say it was another fire,” Queenie says. “Because spoiler alert: it was another fire.”

“Okay, technically it was an explosion.”

“Fire, explosion, what’s the difference, girl?”

Misty listens to their lighthearted bickering and tries not to seem too rattled. But her stomach is all twisted, and she has to ball her hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

* * * 

In the evening, Cordelia leads Misty to the master bedroom, to her closet, where it appears she has been storing several packing boxes. Most of them are labeled ‘Misty Day’, and when Cordelia drops one of them onto her bed, Misty tears past the tape and opens it to find some of her old clothes, folded neatly on top of a stack of Stevie tapes. 

“You kept it all?” 

Cordelia smiles, but it’s shaky, the kind of smile that trembles around the edges. 

“I never stopped trying to find you,” she says. “Never.”

The admission is unnecessary, but Misty sees it, then, the guilt, the awful weight Cordelia has been carrying with her all these months. 

“I know,” she says, and Cordelia nods. 

“Welcome back, Misty.” 

Only, Misty doesn’t really feel like she’s back. Everything is out of focus, blurry around the edges, like a part of her isn’t really here, like she’s still chained to that desk, fighting to break free.

“Let me show you to your new room,” Cordelia says. “I’m sure you could use some rest.”

Misty almost protests, because going to her room means leaving Cordelia, but in the end it’s easier to agree. What she could really use, what she wants, is a lot more complicated than sleep. She wants to hold Cordelia’s hand and never let go, wants to trace the fine angles of her face, the curve of her lips, the round apple of her cheek, wants to hold her and feel Cordelia’s arms wrap securely around her waist. Cordelia is the only person in the world who has ever made her feel safe, and Misty wants to wrap herself up in that feeling and never let it go. 

But Misty’s touch is poison now, and so is her magic, and she won’t risk hurting Cordelia. Even proximity is a danger, now; if she gets too close for too long, Cordelia might start to notice the changes, changes that Misty herself is only just discovering. She’ll figure out that after months and months of killing, Misty’s magic has gone completely dark, and she will decide that Misty is a threat to the coven. And then this reality will only be another version, another iteration of hell.

So she follows Cordelia to an unoccupied bedroom and says goodnight, avoiding any contact, anything physical that might connect them.

* * * 

Her first night back at the house, Misty has trouble falling asleep.

It’s nearly four in the morning, and Misty is lying on her mattress, staring up at the blank ceiling and wishing it were sky. She’s been awake all night, curled up in bed and straining to hear the distant chirping of crickets in the yard. 

In some ways, the house is still foreign, with its creaks and whispers, the rooms done up in whites and blacks and golds. It’s familiar from her short stay last year, but Misty misses the buzz of insects, the mossy green and muddy brown of the earth. 

She needs to feel that connection again, needs to sink her fingers and toes into the earth and absorb its strength. She’s desperate for it, so desperate she can’t keep still, and soon she finds herself rising from her bed and dressing silently in the dark.

Before she leaves the house, she steals a pair of leather gloves from downstairs and hopes no one will notice.

* * * 

The sun is still creeping up over the trees as Misty reaches the edge of the bayou. 

Her skin is prickling with anticipation, heart pounding as she bends to remove her boots and peel off her socks. Her magic rushes to the surface, always seems to in moments like these, but Misty suppresses it until that familiar tingling dies away. And she keeps her gloves on, just in case.

She can hear the hum of cicadas, the gentle chirping of robins. Everything is fresh and green and alive, and Misty wants to live in it, wants to press her toes into the wet earth and feel its energy pulse through her. 

As she takes her first few steps, the mud squelches and sighs beneath her feet. She breathes in the familiar sweetness of wet wood and sap, and for the first time since her return, she feels alert, awake, alive. 

She allows her weight to drop forward, until she’s stumbling, slipping, running through the mud, her arms outstretched by her sides, head tilted up to catch the sun. 

The swamp wraps itself around her tighter and tighter with each stride, with each inhale. The feeling is intoxicating, overwhelming, a little bit like magic. 

She only stops running when she reaches her destination, hair windswept and chest heaving.

The shack looks the same from the outside, and as her muddied feet carry her over the threshold, she inhales the hot, musty air and looks around. 

As her eyes adjust to the light, they flit from the bed to her records, and then to the new decor. The changes are stark: the walls, which were once riddled with clusters of bullet holes, have been replaced, and a whole indoor plumbing system has been installed.

She doesn’t have to wonder who has made these upgrades, who has taken the time to fix up her home. If she concentrates hard enough, she can sense Cordelia’s magic in the room, lingering in the air. And knowing that Cordelia has done this, that Cordelia has always expected her to return, makes her feel unexpectedly warm. 

Cordelia isn’t far away, only several miles, but right now Misty feels the distance between them acutely. They spoke just last night, she knows that, and yet for a long, ridiculous moment, Misty misses her terribly.

* * * 

Misty returns to the academy at around ten o’ clock, once classes are already in session.

She wanders through the house, hears Zoe’s voice, then Queenie’s, and finally Cordelia’s. She follows the sound to an open door, and when she peeks in, she finds Cordelia standing in front of a dozen girls, dressed in a pencil skirt and a white blouse. Just seeing her is a balm, makes Misty’s heart rate slow, but the ache in her chest, the need for contact, is just as strong.

So Misty lingers in the doorway, her arms wrapped loosely around her stomach as she watches Cordelia teach. The early afternoon sun is streaming in through the windows, casting strips of light over the desks as Cordelia jots a few words down on the blackboard. 

Most of the students are diligently scribbling down notes, eyes darting from their books to the blackboard, while a few glance curiously over at Misty. For a moment, Cordelia’s back arches elegantly as she reaches up higher to write at the top of the board in neat cursive. The movement is fluid and graceful, and with her white blouse and the sun lighting her from behind, she looks every bit an angel. 

Misty is still standing in the doorway when Cordelia turns around and finally catches her staring. 

“Misty?” If Cordelia is upset about being watched, it doesn’t show. In fact, she looks quite pleased. “I didn’t realize you’d be joining us today.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Misty says, and she can feel the students’ eyes on her. It’s too much like hell, too much like that science classroom, and Misty shrinks back. “Just wanted to see you.”

Cordelia smiles at that, her expression softening in that special way it does when she’s touched or pleasantly surprised. Then she turns to face her students. “Class is dismissed for today. I’ll see you all at lunch.”

The girls file out, many of them eying Misty with interest. Once they’re all gone, Misty steps inside the room. 

“Hi,” Cordelia says, reaching for Misty’s hands and squeezing. “Is everything all right?” 

Misty looks down at their joined hands, at how nicely they fit together, and that ache in her chest subsides. She runs her gloved thumbs along Cordelia’s palms several times before she releases her hands completely. “I’m fine, Miss Cordelia.”

It isn’t exactly the truth, and maybe Cordelia knows that, but she doesn’t push. “Are those my gloves?”

Misty glances down at her hands. “Oh, I just…they looked so nice, and I-”

“Keep them,” Cordelia says, and Misty sighs, relieved. 

“Thank you.”

“You seemed so tired last night, we didn’t want to wake you. Did you sleep all right?”

Misty shrugs, her left index finger tapping nervously against her own thigh. “Couldn’t sleep. Too much noise in my head. So I got up early and went back to the swamp.”

Cordelia’s smile falters. “Oh,” she says. “Is that-would you like to move back there?”

Misty shakes her head. “It was callin’ to me. The earth. And it felt good to be outside after bein’ trapped for so long. It was real nice, all the cicadas singin’.” 

Cordelia nods, but still seems concerned. “That’s good.” 

“I felt so free,” Misty continues, and now the embarrassment sets in, turning her cheeks pink. “But I missed you.” 

Cordelia smiles at that, and it gives Misty the courage to continue.

“I mean, I know we just saw each other last night an’ all, but I was standin’ there in that little house lookin’ at all the things you put in there just for me, and I could feel your magic, like it was part of me. And it got me thinkin’ about all the tricks hell can play on people. And I was worried maybe you weren’t real after all, so I needed to check. I know it’s silly.”

Cordelia’s eyes are shiny now, and she takes Misty’s face in her hands and brushes a gentle thumb across her cheek. When she speaks, her voice is thick with emotion.

“It isn’t silly,” she says, with a soft shake of her head. “I’ve been missing you for so long, I’m not sure how to stop.”

Her words make Misty feel hopeful, sad, but most of all, she feels a pang of longing. Especially when she has to gently tug at Cordelia’s wrists and remove them from her face. 

Cordelia frowns at that, opens her mouth to address it, but Misty quickly reaches for a distraction.

“So you said somethin’ to the girls about lunch?”

Cordelia blinks at her, then laughs, and it’s a lovely sound, rich and sweet.

“Not for another two hours. But I’ll make you a snack.”

* * * 

Misty starts wearing Cordelia’s gloves all the time. 

During her first week back, she is especially careful to keep them on at meals, when so many of the younger students are close by. The black leather probably doesn’t match with the rest of her clothes, but no one has commented on it, and Misty is grateful.

She is also careful to keep her shoulders and arms covered by a shawl at all times, so that whenever Cordelia reaches over to get her attention or squeeze her arm, there isn’t any skin-to-skin contact.

It’s exhausting, these constant efforts. But necessary, if she wants to keep her tribe. And mercifully, Cordelia hasn’t commented on any of her new habits.

* * * 

Misty isn’t sleeping.

She tries, but the nightmares always greet her the moment she falls out of consciousness. Hell follows her to bed each night, and plagues her until she wakes up an hour or so later, dripping with sweat, too paralyzed to move. 

She doesn’t tell Cordelia; it would only upset her, and lately she’s been so relaxed, so uncharacteristically happy. Misty doesn’t want to ruin that, and she certainly doesn’t want Cordelia to think she came back broken, that she isn’t the same girl she was before.

Cordelia has already noticed that she isn’t using her powers. Misty doesn’t want to give her any more reasons to worry.

* * * 

Misty hasn’t touched an animal since her return from hell.

Cordelia doesn’t notice this aversion at first – after all, there aren’t many pets roaming around the mansion – but about two weeks after her return, one of Cordelia’s youngest students runs into the kitchen, where Misty and Cordelia are preparing breakfast, with an injured baby bird cupped in her palms.

The girl approaches Misty. “You have to save it!” 

“What?” Misty’s eyes fix on that little bird, who is desperately flapping its uninjured wing, squawking faintly, and she flinches. “No, I…I can’t.”

“But you’re Misty Day,” the girl says, stressing the syllables of her name. “You bring things back from the dead. Zoe says you can heal anything.” 

It isn’t the first Misty has heard of her reputation at the school. The girls have asked about her, and Zoe and Queenie have answered a lot of their questions. Some of the students call her ‘the swamp witch’ behind her back, but whenever they see her, they’re all very friendly and sweet. 

So she knows that this young girl isn’t trying to put her in an uncomfortable position, isn’t trying to trigger memories of hell and its residents, but it’s very hard to focus on logic when her heart has started skipping beats and her mouth has gone so dry. She tugs at her gloves, pulling them farther up her wrists; a single touch could kill that bird, and that is the thought that launches her back into hell. 

For a moment all she can see is that little frog, that straight line of blood, and all of a sudden she’s back there again. Misty starts shaking her head and murmuring the word ‘no’ over and over again, feels so young and helpless as that teacher forces the scalpel down toward the desk, and at the same time, she hears Cordelia start to speak. 

“You know what, Katie?” she says. “I have a few salves stored in the greenhouse. Why don’t you ask Zoe to find one for you?”

“Okay, Miss Goode.” 

Misty hears their conversation, hears everything that is happening in the real world, but she can also see that science lab, can feel that teacher’s hands on her, those nails digging in. 

Cordelia gently takes Misty’s face in her hands. “Hey. Look at me. It’s not real, okay?”

Misty lets out a quiet sob, tears falling freely down her cheeks. “I don’t wanna hurt it anymore, please don’t make me, please…”

“Misty, listen to me.” Cordelia tries to brush away her tears with her thumbs, but they just keep coming. “It’s not real. You aren’t hurting anyone. You’re right here with me. You’re safe. You’re safe, I promise.”

Misty takes a few deep, gasping breaths, tries to focus on the sound of Cordelia’s voice, the warm brown of her eyes. And eventually, the image of that little frog starts to fade, and she’s back in the kitchen, back at the house with Cordelia. With Cordelia touching her face.

“I’m…” Misty steps back, and Cordelia releases her. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Cordelia says. “You spent over a year in hell. There’s bound to be an adjustment period. Okay?”

“Okay.” 

And then Cordelia tries to hug her. 

“Sorry,” Misty says, backing up even further. “Just…please don’t.”

Cordelia may be hurt by the rejection, but she doesn’t say a word.

* * * 

She’s been back for just over two weeks when Cordelia asks Misty to join her in the greenhouse. 

“I thought it might be nice to spend some time in here,” she says, leading Misty through the entrance. “Just the two of us.”

Misty smiles and follows Cordelia over to one of the worktables. There is a pot sitting on the table, and Misty can see that the plant growing from the pot is wilted and dying. 

“I haven’t spent much time in the greenhouse this week,” Cordelia says. “I think this one could use some attention.”

Misty hums in agreement, stepping back and waiting for Cordelia to work her magic. But Cordelia just stares at her for a few moments, smiling expectantly, until it becomes painfully clear that she would like Misty to take the reins. 

“Miss Cordelia, I don’t think-”

“Here,” Cordelia says, and she reaches over to help Misty tug off her gloves. “Let me help you.”

“No!” Misty wrenches away from her, and Cordelia starts, surprised by her outburst. “Sorry. Just, I’ll…I’ll do it.”

Misty slowly tugs off her gloves, placing them carefully on the table. She knows that Cordelia is only trying to help her, to get her back to where she was, because Cordelia is kind and selfless and good. So Misty is going to try to meet her halfway.

With a trembling hand, Misty reaches over and takes a small leaf between her thumb and forefinger, brushing the pad of her thumb along its spine. There is still life flowing through those green veins, however faint, however dwindling. But the dry, dead edges of each leaf are brown and brittle, and would crack off and fall to the ground under the slightest pressure. 

Misty can feel the magic rise up inside of her without any coaxing. Her magic has always been instinctive, and right now it is responding to the drooping of those leaves, to the strange stench of death. A familiar warmth begins to flow through her, bright and electric, spreading all the way to her toes and the soft tips of her fingers, until the energy she has produced is charged and hovering on the precipice of release. And then she remembers those frogs, all the blood, that scalpel, and the energy building up inside of her changes again, morphing into something dark and horrible, something poisonous. And Misty worries that her magic will come out wrong.

She glances back at Cordelia for encouragement, assurance, something, and immediately wishes she hadn’t. Because Cordelia looks so hopeful, so relieved, even if she’s trying to hide it, and Misty just knows she’s going to let her down. Cordelia taught her that intent is everything, but right now she can only focus on the unfamiliar buzz of her magic, the way it weighs her down instead of lifting her up, and apparently fear is much stronger than intention.

She closes her eyes and the magic fizzles out, faster than it arrived, and Misty releases that dry little leaf and steps back.

“Misty?” Cordelia approaches her and places a gentle hand on her bare arm, which Misty quickly shakes off. “Are you okay?”

“I can’t do it,” Misty says, refusing to meet Cordelia’s gaze. A sad hopelessness has bloomed in her chest, a feeling of absolute defeat. “You shoulda left me where I was.”

Cordelia flinches. “Misty-”

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” she says, voice catching, and then she grabs her gloves and heads out the door, shawl billowing behind her. 

She can hear Cordelia calling after her, but she refuses to look back.

* * * 

Misty avoids Cordelia for the next few days.

It isn’t fair, and it won’t solve anything, but Misty can’t face her, not now.

She spends a lot of time in her room, only leaving for meals or to go outside for a walk. She reads some of the spell books that the students have been assigned, curious about their lessons. She’d never try any of those spells on her own, though, not now that her magic has been tainted.

But on the third day of avoidance, she makes the mistake of heading downstairs for a late night snack. She passes the living room on her way and hesitates when she sees Cordelia curled up on the couch, nursing a mug of tea. 

Cordelia has already seen her, so there’s no point in trying to duck out of sight. She feels the two opposing forces at war inside of her, one desperate to curl up next to Cordelia and hold her close, and one screaming at her to hide. 

“Join me?” Cordelia says, and Misty nods.

“Sure.”

She takes a seat beside Cordelia and allows the other woman to take her gloved hands and squeeze. 

“We should talk,” Cordelia says, offering her a small smile. “I really think it might-” 

And right then, staring into those soft brown eyes, Misty knows she has to tell Cordelia the truth. Even if it means losing her place here. Even if it means losing Cordelia. So she starts with the easiest confession.

“I have nightmares,” she says, and as the words leave her, she watches Cordelia’s smile start to slip. “About hell. I’ve been havin’ ‘em every night since I got back.”

“You have?” Cordelia’s eyebrows knit together, and her obvious concern, coupled with the tender way she reaches out to briefly run her thumb across Misty’s cheek, make Misty feel that much worse about keeping something from her. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I knew you’d worry,” Misty says with a shrug. “An’ I feel different; my powers don’t work like they used to. I didn’t want you to think I came back wrong.”

“Oh, sweetheart…” Cordelia says, her eyes filling with tears. “You didn’t come back wrong.” 

Misty tries to respond, to argue, maybe, but in the face of Cordelia’s unwavering certainty and support, it just devolves into a sob. 

“Come here.” Cordelia pulls her into a warm hug, whispering gentle words of comfort. Misty buries her face in Cordelia’s neck for a few moments, breathing in the faint fruitiness of her shampoo. And then, quite suddenly, she remembers herself.

“No,” she murmurs, extricating herself from Cordelia’s hold. “Don’t. You shouldn’t touch me.”

For a moment, she thinks Cordelia will let it go, that she won’t push for any more answers tonight. But Cordelia sighs, and Misty sees it, the moment that she decides enough is enough.

“Why not?” she demands, and this is the first time Cordelia has ever snapped at her. “Why can’t I touch you?” And Misty considers dodging the question, dancing around the truth for a while longer, but in the end she can’t bring herself to lie. 

“I’m bad,” she whispers, and the words come out soft and broken, like they don’t quite fit together. “I’m dark now. Everything I touch dies. And I’m scared I’m gonna hurt you, or Zoe and Queenie, or the girls. I just didn’t want you to find out. I didn’t want you to hate me.”

Cordelia’s eyes are filling with tears again, and Misty hates that she keeps making this woman cry.

“Misty, you’re not dark. And I could never hate-”

“I am,” she insists, and to prove her point, she stands up and heads outside to the greenhouse. Cordelia follows behind her, trying to meet her strides.

“Misty, wait, what’s-”

Cordelia follows her through the glass door, and Misty heads straight for a small tomato plant. 

“Look.” She tugs off her right glove and cups one of the tomatoes in her palm. Her magic rises to the surface, black and ugly, and that red, juicy fruit starts to shrivel up and rot. Cordelia watches with wide eyes as it completely caves in on itself and turns a sickening grey color.

“Everything I touch,” Misty echoes, and she can feel tears streaming down her cheeks, but she doesn’t bother wiping them away. 

Cordelia shakes her head, eyes still trained on that shriveled tomato as Misty rushes out of the greenhouse, her chest so tight she thinks it might burst.

* * * 

Misty doesn’t eat the next day, just stays holed up in her room and stares at ceiling, waiting for the inevitable moment when Cordelia walks in and tells her that she needs to leave the house.

And that night, Cordelia does come knocking at her door, but for an entirely different reason. She is glowing with purpose, eyes bright, like she has just solved a very important problem.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” she says, and Misty could laugh, because that is so obviously the furthest thing from the truth. “I’ve had to do some research, look through some of my books…”

Misty clearly isn’t following anything that she’s saying, though, so Cordelia cuts to the chase. 

“Misty…you have the power of resurgence,” she says, and her voice has adopted that familiar teacher-like quality. “And magic requires balance. If a witch has the power to create fire from nothing, she also has the power to snuff it out. So anyone with the power to give life must also have the power to drain it.”

Misty shakes her head, completely lost. “I don’t understand.”

“What I’m saying is,” Cordelia continues, biting back a smile. “Your powers are the same. The intention is different.”

Misty blinks at her, stunned. “But I don’t wanna kill things.”

“I know,” Cordelia says softly. “But our powers are linked to our emotions, and I think…I think your fear is affecting your ability to heal.”

Misty frowns, failing to process what any of it means, because her magic isn’t her own, she knows it, and that means something must be wrong. Cordelia seems to sense her doubt, though, because she rushes to continue.

“This darkness, it’s…” Cordelia hesitates, searching for the words. “It’s not real. It’s all in your head, honey.” 

“No, I…I felt it,” Misty tells her, staring down at her own gloved palms. “When I tried to use my magic, it came out wrong.”

“It’s all in your head,” Cordelia insists. “I promise. There’s nothing wrong with you.”

Misty takes a few shaky breaths, her chest tight. Hope rises up inside of her, bright and dangerous. “Are you sure?”

Cordelia nods. “Yes. Here, let me show you.” 

She reaches for Misty’s hands and tugs slightly at her left glove. “May I?”

Misty’s chest seizes with panic, but she swallows it down and nods. “Okay.”

Cordelia carefully removes both gloves, and afterwards she squeezes both of Misty’s bare hands before releasing them. Then she produces a small knife from her back pocket and drags the pointed tip across her arm. Blood instantly blooms from her wrist to the inside of her elbow in a shaky crimson line, and Cordelia inhales sharply. 

Misty stares at her, dumbfounded. 

“What are you-”

“Heal me,” Cordelia commands, offering up her arm to Misty. 

“I-I can’t.”

“You can,” Cordelia insists. “You just have to want to.”

Misty is shaking, now, trembling all over, and the sight of the blood is bringing back the most horrible memories. But she thinks that might have been Cordelia’s plan all along, to force her to push through it.

“I know you’re scared,” Cordelia says, and the blood is all over her arm now, dripping onto the floor. “But I also know you would never hurt me.”

Misty can feel her magic, the pulse of it, how it aches to reach out and fix Cordelia, make her good as new again. But hell lingers in the back of her mind, contaminating every burst of energy.

“Focus on me,” Cordelia says. “Just me.”

Misty nods, and she finally steps forward, staring into those lovely brown eyes as she takes Cordelia’s arm in her hands and presses a palm to the wound. Cordelia keeps talking to her the whole time, and Misty focuses on the gentle cadence of her voice, the softness of her skin, the way the ends of Cordelia’s hair brush against her shoulder.

Misty closes her eyes and doesn’t think about magic at all, only about Cordelia, about how much she feels for her, all of those emotions she’s kept bottled up since the day they met. 

After some long, indeterminate amount of time, Cordelia speaks, her voice a hushed, excited whisper.

“Misty. Misty, look.”

She opens her eyes, and as she releases Cordelia’s arm, she finds that there is no wound left at all, not even a faint scar. The skin is unblemished, just as it was before, and she’s so relieved she starts to cry. 

“You did it,” Cordelia whispers, and her smile is radiant, makes Misty’s stomach flip.

“I did it…” Misty echoes, laughing wetly. “I’m not dark.”

And Misty decides she’s done with deception, from hiding the truth, from keeping so much distance between them.

“I love you,” she says, and then for good measure, “I really, really love you.”

And for a moment Cordelia just blinks at her, tears gathering in her eyes. Misty is worried, at first, that she’s said too much, that she’s ruined the fragile thing that’s been growing between them. But then Cordelia takes Misty’s face in her hands and kisses her, and all of those worries melt away.

It doesn’t last long, only a few seconds at most, but when Cordelia breaks it and leans back to gauge Misty’s reaction, Misty clings to her forearms to keep her close and captures her lips in a second kiss, just as warm and bruising as the last. 

As Cordelia’s soft lips move against her own, a pleasant warmth blossoms inside of her, and Misty’s chest aches wonderfully. 

Cordelia takes her hand and moves to sit at the edge of the bed, gesturing for Misty to join her. Which she does, straddling Cordelia’s lap and pressing kisses to every inch of her face until Cordelia laughs and kisses her properly.

That’s when a need rises up inside of Misty, strong and urgent.

Slowly, with trembling hands, Misty reaches up to touch Cordelia’s face, to feel the softness of her cheeks up close, the supple curve of her lips. 

“I wanna feel you,” she says. “Is that okay?” And she’s worried that her request is too strange, or that Cordelia will take it the wrong way, but Cordelia only smiles.

“Of course.” Misty shifts in her lap, and Cordelia presses a kiss to her cheek. “Take your time.”

Cordelia is still smiling up at her, so Misty starts there: she traces that smile with her fingers, gently grazes her thumb over those perfect lips, thumb catching on the cupid’s bow, and watches in fascination as that smile widens. Her fingers move to Cordelia’s cheeks, pressing, caressing as Misty memorizes every freckle, every mark. 

“You’ve got awful pretty eyes, Miss Cordelia.”

Cordelia flushes a lovely shade of red, but doesn’t look away. 

“You can just call me Cordelia, you know,” she says, and Misty smiles back at her, full-force.

“Okay.” 

She runs a finger along the bridge of Cordelia’s nose, runs her fingers through that lovely hair. All the while, Cordelia stays perfectly still, watching her with rapt attention as she explores, mapping out every inch of her skin.

“You have a scar,” Misty murmurs. “Right under your chin.” She runs her index finger over it and feels the slight indent. “It’s tiny, but I can feel it.”

Cordelia swallows, and Misty observes the gentle bob of her throat.

“I fell off a scooter when I was seven. Had to get stitches.”

“Mm.” Misty presses a kiss to that tiny scar and then moves to her neck, running her fingers along its fine column until she reaches Cordelia’s collarbone. She presses her hand just above her left breast and closes her eyes. 

It’s quiet, but not for long. And Misty’s eyes are shut, but she can hear the smile in Cordelia’s voice when she says, “Are you trying to feel my heartbeat?”

Misty opens her eyes and retracts her hand, embarrassed. “Is that strange?”

“Not at all,” Cordelia says, smiling fondly at her. “It’s sweet.”

Misty nods, then turns her attention to the white blouse covering Cordelia’s torso. “Can I…?”

“You can do whatever you like,” Cordelia says, and it doesn’t come out suggestive at all, only reassuring, but Misty still blushes.

Cordelia helps her with all of the buttons, and soon that blouse has been discarded on the floor, and Misty is touching those smooth shoulders, squeezing her biceps and identifying lone freckles. As she runs her fingers along Cordelia’s forearm, Misty dips her head to press a kiss to the inside of her elbow. 

She traces the lines of Cordelia’s palms and the slope of her thumbs, and it feels a bit like a religious experience, worshiping at the altar, but infinitely more tender. She presses kisses to her hands and wrists, and then pushes lightly at Cordelia’s collarbone until she gets the message and shifts onto her back.

Misty hovers over her for a beat, and Cordelia takes that opportunity to pull her down for a kiss. 

“You can take it off,” Cordelia says, glancing down at her skirt. “There’s a zipper on the right side, a small one.”

Misty searches for it, then tugs down until there’s enough room for Cordelia to shimmy out of it. Once the garment has been removed, Misty just stares down at Cordelia’s pale stomach and long, toned legs, and it hits her. That she’s happy for the first time in forever.

And she wants to explore every inch of this woman, she does, but right now there is something she needs much more desperately. 

She moves off of the bed and, with Cordelia watching her every move, Misty pulls her own dress over her head and lets her shawl fall to the floor. She thinks she hears Cordelia’s breath hitch, and is surprised when Cordelia leaves the bed to stand in front of her. Cordelia doesn’t touch her, but the look she is giving Misty is almost worshipful. 

“You’re gorgeous,” Cordelia says, and Misty smiles.

“You know when I first met you I thought you were an angel from heaven,” she says, reaching up to touch Cordelia’s face. “Now I know I was right.”

Cordelia stares at her for a moment, looks at her with so much tenderness and affection that Misty thinks she might burst. And then Cordelia leans in and kisses her, hard and desperate, and Misty kisses back just as eagerly.

Wordlessly, Cordelia takes her hand and leads her back over to the bed. She sits at the edge again, and Misty settles onto her lap, arms wrapped loosely around Cordelia’s neck.

“Can you just…I need…” 

“What?” And Cordelia is looking at her now like she is the only important thing in the world, like she would do absolutely anything if it would make her happy. “Tell me.”

“Would you hold me for a while?” Misty asks, biting her lip. “Like this?”

Cordelia smiles softly and nods, and she wraps her arms securely around Misty’s waist, pulling them flush against each other. Misty buries her face in Cordelia’s neck and nuzzles her ear, breathing in the scent of expensive perfume. Cordelia’s skin is so warm, and she’s everywhere, wrapped around her and pressed to her front, and Misty doesn’t think she’s ever felt so safe in her life. Cordelia’s essence is so white and soft, and it settles around her, encases her in all of that goodness like a bright blanket. 

After a minute or so, Cordelia speaks.

“You know, when you first got back I was so happy,” she says, pressing a kiss to Misty’s shoulder. “I was so relieved. And I thought just having you here would fix everything. All of the loneliness and the guilt.”

Misty listens closely, makes a small humming sound so that Cordelia knows she’s paying attention.

“But then you kept shutting me out. You wouldn’t let me touch you, and that…hurt me. And at first I wasn’t sure why.”

“I’m sorry,” Misty whispers, and Cordelia kisses her hair and squeezes her tighter to signal that she’s forgiven.

“But then I realized that it only hurt so much because…” Cordelia takes a long, shuddering breath. “Because I love you, too.”

Misty pulls back just enough to look at her, her chest impossibly full. “You do?”

Cordelia nods, and it’s almost shy. “I do.”

Misty leans forward and hugs her again, holding her as close as she can. 

“I don’t ever wanna let go of you,” she admits, and she can feel Cordelia smile against her neck.

“Then don’t.”

* * * 

It takes a while before she has complete control of her powers again, but Cordelia helps her through it. She’s so patient, so gentle and good, and Misty still isn't sure she deserves her. But she tries every day, every minute, to be worthy, to provide Cordelia with even a fraction of the happiness Misty feels when they're together. She fights back against those quiet moments of grief, of suffocating darkness, and keeps her eyes fixed on Cordelia, on the woman who has become a shining beacon of hope at the end of a dark tunnel.

Most of the time it works, and Misty can block out all of that pain and set it aside. 

Most of the time she succeeds, because at the end of the day, there may be darkness inside of Misty, the capacity for pain and death. 

But Misty will always reach for the light.


End file.
